Mary's Gold

Since he died, I have been suffocated with marigolds. My daughter brings them every time she visits, thinking they'll help me heal. I don't have the heart to tell her how much they hurt.

They fill every room, vases large and small covering every flat surface. The sunlight that shines through the gaps of the curtains that have been impossible to cover - no matter how violently I yank the panels together, ripping down the rod and forcing me to call Mary once again to replace it - makes the golden petals brighter, blinding, until the color is eventually sucked from them with every passing day and the petals, dry and pitiful, fall to the floor, atop the corpses of those that came before.

The house, cluttered with these damn flowers, never felt so empty, devoid of the positivity that exuded from him and leaked into the walls. There was no more life here - not from him, not from these flowers, not from me.

I became lifeless the moment I woke up to his last breath, a hermit hiding away from the responsibility of burying the love of his life, his friends and families, the mass grave of rotting marigolds in his living room and hallways. Seeing them brought me nothing but pain anymore, a constant reminder of love lost.

He had loved marigolds, and that had made me love them just as much. They reflected his golden personality perfectly, his brilliant smile and the sparkle in his eye every time he saw one, the caring nature that came naturally to him. He bought them often, placing a few around the house, giving it that special touch that made it feel like a home. The rest he would take to a graveyard, laying them down on empty graves. I want to brighten their day, especially if they don't have anyone else to bring them flowers anymore, was his explanation. It made me love him even more.

He often joked that he felt right at home in graveyards, far before his time to actually be laid to rest in one. This always left a sour taste in my mouth, but the gleeful laugh that accompanied these comments always made me feel better in the moment. Now, the only comfort I have is knowing that he was right, that he was taken from me after a long, happy life together - though still, much too soon.

It's his birthday when I hear the front door ringing, waking me out of my desperate attempt to escape the day. I know it's my daughter, because she had made me promise to visit his grave today.

I reluctantly pull myself out of my bed, halfheartedly attempting to make myself presentable as I step over the crunchy remains of the marigolds on the floor, refusing to be blinded by the ones still struggling to survive.

"Hi, Dad." I see Mary's smiling face the moment I pry the door open, and then the gold in her hands.

I step back and gesture for her to put the vase of marigolds wherever she can find space among the rest of ones she has brought me.

She tsk's in disapproval, taking in the casualties coating the ground. "Let me sweep for you later today, okay?" I grunt, knowing she'll take it as agreement. She finds my coat in the mess and helps me put it on before leading me to her car.

"I'm sure Daddy will be happy that we're visiting," she says on the way to the cemetery. I can only find the energy to pat her knee, appreciating her attempt to be optimistic. Because the closer we get, the more my body begins to feel like lead. I can't stomach the idea of seeing his grave, after so many months of being mentally unable to visit.

When Mary parks, neither of us move from our seats. She turns toward me, covering my hand with her own. "Dad, why don't you go first?" she suggests, her words measured. "I want to give you some time alone with him. I'll catch up to you in a bit."

I can hear the burr of tears in the back of her throat, and I know she also needs a moment to compose herself before confronting her father's memory. I turn my hand over to squeeze hers gently. I realize then that as painful as doing this is for me, facing the body I couldn't even see, trapped in a wooden box even though I know he would have preferred to have his body become nutrients for what lives underground, I had to do it for her, my only child, who is still alive and breathing in my hand.

I slowly get out of the car, raising my hand up to block the immediate, harsh sunlight glaring down at me, and begin my gradual journey to where my husband's body is. My body instantly aches from the exertion, but I push forward.

I lower my hand back down when I know I'm close to it, and a flare of light crosses my vision. I blink it away, my face contorting in pain and disgust.

It quickly turns into disbelief as I see the image of my husband, in his youth, hovering near his gravestone. But it can't be...

I'm proven right as my vision clears fully, as the man standing in front of me becomes a solid figure. He's a stranger to me, but the resemblance makes me want to scream, to wail to the heavens, to grab him and shake him until he morphs into the man I love, returned back to me.

Instead, I do nothing.

It takes the young man a while to notice my presence, and he jumps when he does. "Oh! I'm so sorry. Uh, do you-? Are you a loved one of his?" He gestures to my husband's grave, which he had been reading up until this point.

"He was my husband," I croak out, my vocal cords weak from disuse.

Pity flashes through this man's eyes. "Oh, no. I'm so sorry for your loss."

I don't know what to say, my conflicted thoughts moving sluggishly in my brain. I don't want his condolences; I'm grateful for his restrained sympathy. I want to ask him to leave, give me some privacy; I don't want him to go, so I can mention that he looks just like him, ask if he was a long-lost cousin. I settle on: "Thank you."

"Can I lay a flower down for him?"

Only then do my eyes leave his familiar face, down to the large collection of flowers he's holding in his hands, the myriad of colors a bright contrast to the black button-down shirt he's wearing. "Aren't those for your own loved ones?"

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up, like how his would. "I already gave my mother hers. These are for others resting here, just in case they don't have anyone to give them flowers. He's lucky to have you, but I would love to give him one still, if that's alright with you."

My lips begin to lift upward, a direction they hadn't gone in in months, while tears pricked the back of my eyes. If only this young man knew how much he embodied the man I loved. "Yes," I finally say, "you can lay a flower down for him. He would like that."

The young man flashes me a kind grin, one so reminiscent of his, and with a careful hand, picks a flower from his bouquet. A marigold.

My breath catches in my throat as the sun reflects the golden petals, now resting beautifully against the pale stone of his grave. How did he know? "Thank you." I'm not sure if my whisper comes through, if it makes it past my tightening throat.

"I hope you can find peace again. He would want you to."

I don't even notice the stranger walking away, now focused entirely on the blurring image in front of me: my husband's shrine, bare except for the kind gift of a stranger, whose soul matched that of my golden man.

"I'm sorry, baby. I'm so, so sorry." For not coming sooner. For letting your favorite flowers die every time, even though our daughter keeps trying to brighten the place up for me. For letting myself get so wrapped up in this grief that I would be no worse if I had joined you.

The sobs tear out of me as my body gives out on me. Tears slip through my burning eyes, my shaking knees meet patches of grass. I reach out with a trembling hand, touching the soft, golden, living petals, and I feel closer to him than I ever have.